Beyond the Kaleidoscope: A Trilogy of Arcane Tales

By Jayson Walker

Beyond the Kaleidoscope presents a thought-provoking trilogy of contemporary tales exploring humanitys interactions with death and faith, extraterrestrial intelligence, and a series of bizarre parallel realities.

In A Stroll in the Park, an old man climbs out of his bunker in a post-apocalyptic world to wait for death to take him. A young fundamentalist man in a horse-drawn cart drops him at the entrance to a long-abandoned forest campgroundand decides to return the following day to check up on his new friend. What he finds will change his life forever.

The Truth Source explores what happens when big government deals with a big secret. When a so-called flying saucer crashes, mankind is suddenly confronted with incontrovertible evidence of intelligent extraterrestrial beings visiting Earth. If the artifacts from 1954 still exist, CIA agent Sully Mildauer intends to locate thembut hell have to save his two prize agents from a deadly forest fire in the process in order to learn whether they found aliens being cloned in a top-secret CIA lab.

In The Blind Watchmaker, a laboratory accident sends a scientist careening hell-bent through a dizzying slide show of bizarre parallel realities. In the process, he finds himself facing the fundamental truth of whoand whathe is. Take a peek beneath the shroud of chaos to discover humanitys place.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462064779

Jayson Walker

Jayson Walker, an engineer by trade, is the author of short stories, anthologies, and novellas, including Beyond the Kaleidoscope (2011). He is currently working on his first full-length novel. He lives near Chesapeake Bay but dreams of returning to his native Michigan.

Book preview

Beyond the

Kaleidoscope

A Trilogy of Arcane Tales

Jayson Walker

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

BEYOND THE KALEIDOSCOPE

A TRILOGY OF ARCANE TALES

Copyright © 2011 by Jayson Walker.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-6476-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-6477-9 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 11/28/2011

Contents

A Stroll

in the Park

Chapter I

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

The Truth

Source

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Julia Redding

Chapter VII

Julia Redding:

Assignment, Virginia

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

LV-51A Revisited

Just Outside the Door

Chapter XV

Ten Years Later

THE BLIND WATCHMAKER

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Conclusion

In memory of my beloved mother, Ann, who will never see her son’s crowning achievement. How I wish you had lived to read this book, Mom—and to share in my joy.

After my life’s brief struggle is done, I shall see you in Heaven, dear Lady…

EPIGRAPH

What hath God wrought? Samuel Morse’s message on the first telegraph communication in 1844.

Preface

People frequently ask me two questions: Where do you come up with this stuff?, and Why aren’t you published? I’ll answer the second question first and with another question: Published? Me? This is just fun for me—the stuff just comes into my head, and I write about it. I don’t think a publisher would have any interest… .

So there, (admittedly) you get only partial answers to questions one and two. But it’s more complicated than that, I think, and more intertwined… .

So let’s start again. It’s not really too hard to nail this down, I guess. I’ll just do what I always do—sit down at the computer, let my fingers do the walking, and let my mind do the talking.

Usually, I get ideas from conversations, unusual expressions like Maundy Thursday, or (ironically) from statements that I misunderstand. These nuggets all have one thing in common, though—a hook that begs exploitation! An example of the latter might be something like a friend’s recent comment that broken-down appliances seem to rule my life. Whoops… hold up, pardner! How about a story about a man who discovers that he must keep his antique washing machine running to stay alive… something akin to The Picture of Dorian Gray? (The story’s already in the works—thanks for the idea, Joe Northropian!)

OK, enough said about all that. Most of the rest comes from my reading in popular science periodicals and books on physics, cosmology, and mathematics… or just my fevered mind trying to make sense of the pain and chaos surrounding us. But always… . ALWAYS… the ideas seem to come in light of the Grand Concepts like relativity, space-time, higher dimensions… and, naturally, the metaphysical: the spiritual, the emotional.

In fact, anything at—or just beyond—the bounds of normal waking human consciousness is grist for the mill… .

I truly hope you’ll enjoy this little book. I poured my heart and soul into it. I can guarantee that it will twist your mind in interesting new ways, make you think, and, hopefully, make you feel at least a little uncomfortable!

If not, I hope you’ll give me a second chance when my next literary effort hits the stands!

So long for now, my new friend—and happy reading!

Jayson Jay Walker

August, 2011

A Stroll

in the Park

Chapter I

Opening Game

The entrance to Anishinaabe Recreational Area was barely visible from Highway CR-31, a secondary highway maintained by the county in a time when there still were counties. A dense tangle of underbrush rendered the park access road nearly impassable. This came as no surprise to Martin Brush. There was little demand for public recreation these days, of course. Government funding for parks—and most everything else, for that matter—had dwindled to nothing twenty years ago.

Martin clambered painfully down from the Penitate hay wagon, which, coincidentally, had been parked in front of the little general store across the street from Martin’s rabbit hole. Luckily for Martin, the Penitates, a religious sect somewhere between the Mennonites and the Amish on the doctrinal continuum, still used mostly horse-drawn transportation. The Penitates rejected the secular world’s man-centered view of morality but very little else about it. Their chief mode of transportation had been retained solely on the basis of their man’s oneness with his environment philosophy, which had gradually expanded to encompass their rejection of heathen (Muslim states’) control of the oil supply. Now, with most of that oil dangerously radioactive, the Penitates maintained business as usual while the rest of the world essentially ground to a halt.

The friendly man unloading burlap bags had happily offered him a ride. The old state park? Out on CR-31? Sure, I go right by there on my way home. Might take a coupl’a hours, though. I got a few stops to make along the way. Gotta drop off some ammo. Will that be OK? Martin allowed as to how that’d be just fine. My name’s Yoder Weaks, the man said, extending his hand.

I’m Martin, the old man responded, shaking Yoder’s hand.

So, what takes you out to the old park, sir? If ya don’t mind my askin’ . . .

Just a stroll, son, a stroll in the park.

How will you get back home, sir? Yoder asked, a look of puzzlement crossing his broad features. Ain’t many passersby out there… .

I know. Don’t worry. I’ve made arrangements, son.

Well, OK, Yoder replied uncertainly.

I’ll be fine, boy. Don’t worry about this ol’ man, Martin cajoled.

Martin’s arthritis was particularly bad today, probably due to the weather. The old man gazed longingly at the park entrance. Yoder smiled and waved aside Martin’s offer of a small pouch of gold shavings. Please accept my thanks, then, Yoder, Martin said, extending his hand.

Yoder shook it enthusiastically. I have everything I need and more, my brother. Here, take this with ya, Yoder said, rummaging a plump little sack out from under his driver’s seat. Sarah makes the world’s best bear jerky—tender, not stringy, ya know? I snack on it sometimes while I drive. You take this. I got plenty more back at the shack.

Martin gladly accepted the gift, examining it with a stupefied expression on his face. You—you actually hunt bear, Yoder?

Well, not usually, but last winter we had to, and rabbit, possum, muskrat, squirrel—whatever we could get. We really don’t have big enough caliber rifles for the he-bears, though, so we had to take mostly cubs and make a lotta precision head shots to the mommas. Usually we hunt deer, but somethin’ killed off most’a the herd last year. We just thank God and accept whatever He provides, you see?

But—you shot cubs? Were they in season?

Yoder laughed heartily and honestly. In season? Surely you jest, my friend! The artifice that man calls society has ceased to exist! Its extravagant promises of wealth and well-being lie rotting like filthy rags at our feet. And we, God’s people, stand vindicated! Yet still the artifice reaches out from the grave to smother us with its regulations! Hunting seasons? What truly is, my friend, is God’s plan, God’s law, and God’s providence! God’s seasons, if you will! Man’s ‘seasons’ hold no sway with Him—nor with us. We are His people, Martin! In God’s Season of Trouble, we gratefully accept His gift of whatever game animals He sees fit to provide! Do you understand, my brother?

Something echoed in the back of Martin’s mind:  . . . a lot of things are way more important than just being safe, following rules… He shook his head as if to clear it. Yes, of course, I do see, Yoder. God means for His people to survive, and He provides the way. He raised his eyes to the smiling Penitate. Thanks, my brother.

It’s His gift, not mine, Brother Martin. I’m just happy to pass it along. May God go with ya.

And also with you, Martin replied, borrowing a phrase from the Catholic services of his distant youth—how many years ago? There was a sharp whistle and a snap of the reins, and Yoder’s swayback mare, Jezebel, lurched reluctantly forward, resuming her long walk home.

Martin stood at the park entrance for a few minutes, catching his breath as he watched the wagon recede into the foggy half-drizzle. It always seemed cold and dreary these days, probably due to the airborne particles from all the volcanoes—and the nukes, he mused. Even on the few relatively clear days, the sun was dim and blood-red, and it seemed to set earlier every day; it was always pitch-black by six in the afternoon. Far off in the distance, he heard the chuff-chuff of a coal-gas steam truck laboring up a long grade, probably back out on the crumbling interstate. Don’t hear that sound much anymore, the old man mused. These days, coal was almost impossible to come by, and most peasant farmers and artisans traded only in local markets when they traded at all. Most of the Arab oil reserves were still too radioactive to use following the spate of retaliatory tactical actions by the United States of Judea (formerly Israel, which had recently swelled to encompass the former Palestine, Jordan, and a large slice of western Syria):

Historical note: " . . . hostile Arab entities had mounted a concerted attack on the now-USJ, and unlike Operation Desert Shield of the early 1990s, the U.S. released its IFF (Identify Friend or Foe) codes to the Israelis. The way was cleared for unfettered retaliation without threat of American intervention. The USJ launched their entire fleet of shiny new XF/B-15JU aircraft—fast, agile fighter-bombers, embellished with conformal fuel tanks and new, superlight screamjet (supersonic combustion ram-enhanced auxiliary multimodal jet) engines on each wingtip. It was a new century and a new war, and this time around, the Judeans plied the enemy ground forces liberally with daisy cutters and MOABs—and when a wave of logy Saudi F-15s and tanks was spotted approaching from the south, the incredible XF/B-15JUs shrieked out of the sun, annihilating the Arab forces in a trice and launching their low-yield tactical nukes directly into the midst of the fertile Saudi oil fields.

Within the hour, the show was over, and within a month, hordes of Palestinian and Jordanian refugees were being relocated at gunpoint to miserable refugee camps in what remained of Syria. Naturally, much of the world’s oil supply had just been rendered unusable, but USJ was having a field day. For better or for worse, Palestinian, Jordanian, and Syrian territory was finally under Judean control… .

Kevin P. Bloch, An Illustrated Encyclopedia of Tactical Conquests (New York: Apocalypse Publishing Company, 2071), p. 192.

Martin Brush sighed deeply as he again faced the inevitable conclusion: commercial distance hauling was essentially a thing of the past. Critical shipments like weapons and other military cargo now monopolized the designated carriers: aircraft, coal-gas tractor-trailers, steam wagons, and hybrid ethanol vehicles. All else accrued to horse or goat carts, rickshaws, or the backs of pack animals—or men. A chill wind soughed through the mostly barren treetops; the forest beckoned.

Then: It seemed like only yesterday, but it had been nearly twenty years since Martin Brush lost his second paper fortune in the worldwide financial collapse known as Black November, aka The Big One. He’d been a rich man before the first meltdown in 2014, lost everything then and regained most of his former wealth by the time the Big One hit. This time, though, he’d secretly hedged his bets with precious metals, which were subsequently legislated into illegality on the heels of Black November.

One fateful night in Black January (it seemed everything carried the prefix black in those days), Martin was working late in his underground bunker, when suddenly the home intruder alert sounded. Someone had just broken into his house—and Amelia was there alone, with their daughters, Meghan and Kayleigh! Martin immediately called 911666, the special emergency access number known only by the privileged few illuminati like himself. A synthesized female voice responded: Hi. You have reached the offices of Universal Security Services, a wholly owned subsidiary of TeraBank International (a Five-Star Global Investments company). This call may be monitored for training and quality purposes. Please listen carefully as our menu has changed. Para español, presione quatro; pour le français, appuyez trois; für Deutsch, drücken Sie zwei; to continue in English, please press 1. For all others… Martin punched 1.

Thank you. Your response indicates that you wish to continue in… English. If that is correct, please press 1 and then star. Otherwise, press… Martin pressed 1*.

Thank you for selecting… English… as your language of preference. Your customer profile has been updated to reflect your language preference… English… and you will not be prompted to repeat this information again the next time you call. If at any time you need to update your personal information or if you need to make a change to your profile, please contact us at www…

Martin smashed his cell phone on the floor, sobbing as he ground the device to powder under the heel of his Gucci loafer. It was too late, too late! Fuck and double-fuck! His home intercom had broadcast the horrible reality as Civilian Security Forces, LLC (another proud member of the TeraBank International family), bullets tore through the sacks of hamburger that had once been his wife and daughters.

Somehow they’d found out about Martin’s little canvas bags of gold—his financial safety net for his family! Martin could see the now-meaningless bags from where he sat, and he vomited copiously.

Martin had again become a very rich man, albeit a multi-millionaire with assets that were negotiable only on the black market. World currencies were being devalued hourly; the Dominion was now literally worth less than the high-tech, counterfeit-proof paper it was printed on. The presses cranked out new denominations of currency weekly to follow the Dominion’s slide. A crisp, new three-hundred-dominion note might just buy you a loaf of day-old bread if you could find an open thrift store before the next devaluation. Gold was now the only real game in town, and the Money Men meant to have it all!

Ironically, Martin was only two miles from home and ten feet underground when his family was butchered. His vision had proven oracular; construction workers had put the finishing touches on his secret hideaway scarcely two months before the Big One rocked the world. The bunker was designed to house four people in nominal comfort for ninety to a hundred days—hopefully long enough for Martin and his family to formulate an escape plan after the financial tsunami he’d predicted. But he’d just listened to his family’s real-time dying screams in the very shelter he’d designed and built to save them!

There was absolutely nothing he could have done that night. They were already dead before Martin could have climbed to the surface. Of all fate’s deft agents, Irony seems to be the most singularly insidious, uniquely equipped to chew up a man’s soul and spit it squarely back in his face. In Martin’s case, Irony had sweetened the pot even further—it had kept him alive to wonder why he hadn’t died with his family.

The extravagant hole in the ground had served as Martin’s home for more than twenty years now. Barring a catastrophic failure, the little steam-driven generator would provide electricity well into the next century. The tiny hot-spring reservoir a half-mile or so beneath the surface would ensure that. But the shelter’s food supply eventually ran out, and Martin was forced to surface, weak and malnourished, to barter and scavenge—and when that failed, to trap and eat the occasional small animal.

The Present—Rewind to earlier that morning: Seven-thousand-

plus nights of fitful sleep surrounded by perpetually cold concrete had gradually taken their toll. Martin was nearly immobilized by arthritis most days, and even on the best days, the ten-foot climb up to the surface was well beyond excruciating.

Today was not a best day. He hadn’t slept well at all. Last night, he’d dreamed about the bear again. He’d awoken bone-weary and deeply exhausted, and this morning his joints were singing the Hallelujah Chorus. It must be damp outside today, and cold, he guessed correctly.

For some reason, Anishinaabe State Park came to mind: the long walks he took there as a child when he needed some time to think, and where the bear had—or had he only dreamt that? He didn’t know for sure. What he did know was that he wanted the solace of the park more than anything. He donned his filthy trench coat, stuffed his tattered Bible into the pocket, and mounted the ladder with no forethought as to how he’d make the ten-mile trip to Anishinaabe. At the moment, though, he didn’t particularly care; if he died trying, that would suit him fine. He’d joined the ranks of the living dead twenty years ago, in a constant state of mourning for his family—and the Book of Revelation promised infinitely worse times to come. The old man’s joints screamed in protest as he pulled himself up to the ladder’s first rung, just as a Penitate farm wagon lurched to a stop in front of Joe Carmi’s crumbling general store. The old Bible felt heavy in his pocket… .

Martin had never figured out where it had come from. He’d discovered it one night in his bottom desk drawer, buried under a sheaf of papers. Strange… Though not a religious man, he’d taken to reading the dog-eared book after cracking open Revelation one evening in search of an inscription, a note, anything that would tell him something of the book’s previous owner. He continued reading, and the passages would haunt him for the rest of his days.

Chapter 2

Middle Game: Down the Road

As he limped painfully around another deadfall, the old man’s hand strayed unconsciously to the Bible. He thought again of the Apocalypse, of the Tribulation. One of the Dominion’s biomachines, a flying scorpion, buzzed past his right ear, its tail pregnant with neurotoxin; apparently it had a target other than Martin in mind. He thought of the scorpion locusts of Revelation, whose tails stung with a venom so painful that victims would desire to die, but death (would) flee from them. Overhead, fighter jets rumbled above the ground fog—like the roar of a thousand lions.

Martin decided to head off into the relatively sparse forest. There appeared to be a trail there, and the access road looked hopelessly blocked. He squinted, trying to see if it eventually cleared, but after a hundred feet or so, the pavement disappeared in the mist. Martin squinted harder; the light was starting to fail. It looked like there was a sign or something lying in the road, about fifty feet ahead… .

Then—Curiosity: Although Martin wasn’t a cat, curiosity had nearly killed him several times. Well, technically, it had killed him once, when his heart stopped briefly during the glue-sniffing incident. Martin was sixteen at the time and old enough to know better. He and three classmates had purloined a quart bottle of PVC cement from the janitor’s closet, and with the aid of a few sandwich bags, they got high one day out behind the crumbling monstrosity known as Stafford High School.

Fortunately, Mr. MacPherson, the janitor, noticed the glue missing and ran out to the loading dock, only to find Martin lying blue and not breathing as his classmates stood around him, flapping their arms helplessly. Big Mac applied a quick thump to the chest, and Marty immediately regained consciousness, coughing violently as the color rushed back into his cheeks.

MacPherson paced to and fro, stroking his chin. He had the boys’ rapt attention. Gather ‘round, boys. Listen up, now. School regulations says I gotta report this to Principal Slotter. But Marty will get into a lot o’ trouble, and you three, too—prob’ly the juvie hall, or at least summer school. Big Mac paused, still stroking his chin contemplatively.

Now listen up, boys. All eyes were on the janitor; their young lives hung in the balance, and all four were sweating profusely, even in the chill April breeze. I’m thinkin’ two things. First thing is, you broke the rules. Marty here almost died. Second thing is, school’s for learnin’—learnin’ lessons. An’ there’s a lesson to be learned here, boys, a big one. Anyone wanna tell me what it is? Big Mac looked from side to side, his stern glare meeting only blank faces… until little Marty looked the janitor straight